The Magic of a Spring Afternoon

THE MAGIC OF A SPRING AFTERNOON

It was a warm, sunny afternoon—the first that felt like spring.  Buds that had been fighting for survival were showing hope that the freeze-thaw temps were a thing of the past and they could begin to open up for real.  Birds were singing merrily, interrupted occasionally by the raucous voices of Sandhill cranes.  I stood at my window watching and listening.  It, however, was not a day to sit inside and watch, but a day to get out and join the celebration

Gathering a bag of sunflower seeds for the birds, my notebook and pen in case of a sudden inspiration, I drove the 10-minute drive to Kensington Metro Park.  The parking lot was crowded, and good fortune was with me as I drove into the one empty space.  It had just been vacated.   It was a joy to see so many people—parents and children—many chattering happily with bags of seed in hand.  There were adults and teens with binoculars, tripods, cameras—families, couples, and an occasional single.  All looked happy to be breathing in the fresh air of spring.  Most were heading toward the boardwalk.

I chose to begin on Wild Wing trail and poured a handful of seeds from my baggie into my open palm.  With my arm bent at the elbow, the seeds lay in the bowl of my upturned palm as I walked.  Soon I was daydreaming only to be startled by the soft sound of wings, the touch of a beak.  My hand jerked, some seeds scattered as others were saved in my closed fist.  I laughed as I reopened my palm, said a soft “I’m sorry.  I’m awake now and you’re welcome to feed.  I won’t hurt you.”  Soon the downy, who had been watching me from a nearby tree, was back to sit on my hand take a seed, then another, before flying back to his branch to eat.  Out from the field on my right strolled a Sandhill Crane.  He looked hungry and I had a dilemma.  Signs are posted “Do Not Feed the Cranes”.  I suspect that is for the safety of the people, as well as the cranes.  I closed my hand and we walked side by side until another crane called, came out on the path.  The two started a conversation and went on their way. 

I opened my hand again as I walked and soon had another downy, many chickadees, nuthatches, and several tufted titmice tickling my palm with their tiny feet, nipping at the seeds in my hand with their small beaks.  My heart was happy. I was aware of a big smile on my face.  The field turned marshy and a bridge crossed a small stream.

The bright yellow of Marsh marigolds brightened the dead brown of last year’s growth.  I chose a large fallen tree trunk as my resting place, laid the seeds at my side, and took out my notebook and pen.  Sitting quietly, watching and listening to the voi ces of nature as well as my own inner voice, I jotted a few notes.  I was aware of a beautiful red adult male cardinal on a nearby branch.  He seemed to be watching me intently.  Most likely he had his eye on the food at my side.  As I watched, he flew to the end of the log and slowly and cautiously made his way step by step closer and closer, as I sat perfectly still watching and waiting.  It wasn’t long before he was at my side.  I watched in awe as he grabbed each seed, picked it open with his beak, then ate the inside, shoved aside the shell and grabbed another.  I heard the sound of footsteps on the path and expected my red friend to fly, but the steps stopped and all was quiet.  The cardinal kept feeding, and I heard the voice on the path whisper, “I can’t believe what I’m seeing.  I can’t believe it.”  Neither could I.  After he had eaten his fill, it seemed he nodded and flew off into the woods.  I turned to the woman on the path and we chatted a bit about the enchanted moments we had shared.

I walked more quickly the rest of the way around the large pond, always with an open palm filled with seeds.  I discovered that chickadees and nuthatches are very friendly and much less afraid than other birds.  Red winged blackbirds come close, but wait for you to put the seed down on a log or the ground before they will come eat.  Tufted titmice are skittish, often swooping down almost touching my hand, before swooping up to a safe branch to observe the situation a bit longer.  Eventually they will come in for a landing to quickly snatch a seed and take it back to their bough before cracking it open to feed.  The downy was the first to come, but only two came to eatr.  I also learned the call of the tufted titmouse which sounded like the call of a chickadee, but more nasal and wheezing.  When I got home I looked up the tufted titmouse, to be sure I hadn’t mixed it up with a cedar waxwing, and was surprised to read, “Notes similar to a chickadee, but more drawling, nasal, wheezing, and complaining.” 

I was disappointed to see the osprey platforms are empty—not one nest.  I hope it is just too early for them. 

On a tiny pond at the south east end where the trail joins the boardwalk, I saw a somewhat untidy nest surrounded by water.  A crane sat quietly on her eggs as people watched, pointed, and taught their children what they knew about cranes.  And finally, from the boardwalk, looking west was a small island with a couple fairly large trees and a multitude of nests filled with immature Little Blue Herons (I counted 54, and know I missed some.)  Another lesson learned.  I thought they were egrets, but was told that this is the herons’ nesting spot and that the immatures are white. 

 I began the afternoon frustrated that I had forgotten my camera and wishing I had someone to walk with.  In fact, the day had been more perfect than I could have planned.  With no camera and no walking partner, I was gifted with silence and an absence of distractions that allowed the birds and I to join in a rare alliance of mutual respect and appreciation.  It was indeed a magical afternoon.